“I think it’s old enough,” Richard Holt said. “Several hundred years, I’d guess. It was probably made originally to be used as a sort of home safe-deposit box.” His finger pressed one of the curlicues on the front of the box and the lid sprang open.
“Hey!” Sandy exclaimed admiringly. “A secret catch!”
“May I try it?” Bert asked. “Beautiful workmanship,” he muttered, as his fingers explored the front. Finally he found the proper curlicue and again the lid flew open.
Sandy tried it next, and then Pop and then Ken.
“No doubt about it,” Sandy said finally. “Mom’ll be crazy about it. She likes secrets as much as she likes antiques.”
Ken, about to hand the box back to his father, saw that Richard Holt’s hands were occupied with lighting a cigarette. So he put the box, instead, on the platform of Mrs. Allen’s kitchen scale, near at hand on the shelf. The indicator of the scale swung sharply over.
“Look,” Sandy said. “Four and a half pounds even. It weighs a lot for such a little thing.”
“They didn’t skimp on materials in those days,” Pop said. “Where’d you get hold of it, Dick?”
“One of the porters in the Global office in Rome asked me if I wanted to buy it,” the foreign correspondent answered. “I knew he’d been selling some of his family heirlooms—he has a hard time getting along—and I wanted to help him out. I persuaded myself at the time that it would do for Mom’s present, but later I had some qualms about it. I thought maybe I should have shopped around, instead of just taking something that fell into my hands. But if you think it’s all right—”
He cleared a space on the kitchen table, spread out a sheet of wrapping paper, and reached for the box. As he picked it up, it slipped from his fingers, struck the edge of the cupboard a glancing blow, and crashed to the floor. The lid sprang open.